


Second Hand Smoke

by rhymeswithmonth



Series: Canon Ficlets [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Don't smoke kids, Grinding, M/M, Pain Kink, S&M, Shotgunning, Sort of PWP, burning kink, it's a bad habit and bad for your health, smoking is not sexy, very little plot at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithmonth/pseuds/rhymeswithmonth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis and cigarettes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Hand Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> I STG didn't find smoking sexy until this band.

Harry is addicted to cigarettes.

His mum had always been very insistent in warning him about smoking. Too many had been lost already, uncles and cousins and friends battling the ugly battle. Blackened teeth and yellow nails, hacking coughs and early graves. " _We know better now"_ , Anne told him, pointing to the posters in the doctor's office. Terrifying, grotesque images of twisted people, " _There are no excuses anymore."_

In year five one of Harry's mates swiped a pack of his older sister's cigarettes. Jonny and Will and Abi all took turns trying it, wrenching and spluttering their way through drags of curling tar. Harry watched them trying to hide how much it affected them. Their faces going blotchy red and their eyes bulging as they failed to suppress their pain. It was all very ugly. When Nick extended the box to Harry he shook his head. The others had shrugged, a couple sneered and wheedled. But Harry had been unmovable, resolve like diamonds. He simply wanted nothing to do with the glowing death sticks. He saw no reason, absolutely nothing about it was appealing.

Addiction comes slowly but surely, in golden limbs and flashing teeth. Louis grins and snickers, fingers pinching and prodding, smoothing and soothing. He lowers his body against Harry's, skin burning like his own personal inferno, fire and brimstone and all. He breaths smoke into Harry's face, seals their lips together and fills his lungs. He squirms and squirms when Harry just wants him to sit. still. He tries to hold him down, pin him with vice hands on hips, grabbing palmfuls of flesh and sinking his nails there. Petulant, he tries to wrench his face away, get to the fresh air above. But Louis has a strong arm around his neck, dragging him back into his heady cloud. He inhales another load of smoke, fag burning bright between them. And Harry has no choice but to allow another acrid kiss, throat burning in protest. The slick smack of bitter lips, poison tongue curling and coaxing. Another and another and another.

Sometimes, when Louis is gone, or when Harry is gone, off to LA or New York, Ibiza or Barcelona, Harry goes out and buys a pack. For all that Louis' a millionaire he always buys the same shitty brand of cigarettes as the first he smoked back in Doncaster back before everything. When they've been forced apart, Harry will pull his hood up over his trademark hair, don a pair of sunnies, and make his pilgrimage to a dank 24hour mart or gas-station. He slides his i.d. across the counter with bated breath as the attendant slides dead eyes over the photo, over the name, hoping that they don't recognize him. They never do.

See, missing Louis is a physical thing. It's throbbing temples and prickling eyes, a dry mouth, cracked lips, stiff back, shrivelled organs, heavy limbs. Harry sits, so very alone, in hotel rooms or empty mansions, and he hurts. It's favourable to flee the suffocating walls, escape to rooftops. He'll kick back against the rough shingles and try to squint through the smog and light pollution to find the stars. And he smokes.

He never smokes when he's home. Home being not a geographical location, but four limbs and blue eyes and a voice like sandpaper. When he's home he breathes through Louis' lungs and the addiction is sated. But away from home he lights his own cigarettes, pale imitations, and he gets by. But without the slick kisses and rolling hips it's just empty pain. It scorches his core and there's no soothing stroke of fingers in his hair. He chain-smokes his way through entire packs chasing that feeling of fullness that comes when it's Louis' second-hand-smoke he's inhaling. But of course he never finds it.

He comes home late. It's an unfamiliar hotel room in a random city, like thousands before it with dull walls, unremarkable floors, stifling ceilings. He's never been here before but as soon as he steps through the door his heart snaps back to life and beats, home, home, home.

He steps over five shoes on his way in, two pairs of plain black keds, a single checkered van that seems to have lost it's mate. He slides out of his own boots, leaves them there amongst the mess. There's a suitcase in the middle of the room, split open by the force of the explosion that's left clothing strewn over every surface. Socks draped over a lamp, trousers caught in the ceiling fan, a dozen shirts lying crumples in every corner. The unmade bed spills off the mattress, more than one pair of underpants tangled in the sheets. Harry breathes in greedily, blackening his nostrils with cinder.

The sliding door leading to the balcony is open, the thin curtains billowing in the late evening breeze. Beyond there's a figure silhouetted by the last rays of sun, haloed in crimson. Harry feels the last of the withdrawal seeping from his pores as he peels off his jeans and shirt, falls onto the bed. There's a crinkle as he lands and he fishes a price of cellophane from beneath him. It's a Marlboro wrapper, torn and rigid. He runs a finger absently over the sharp edge. Doesn't throw it away. Falls asleep with it curled loosely in his palm.

He wakes up to Louis looming above him. Drowsily he can't help but smile, goes to raise his arm to reach out before he registers the position he's in. His arms are pinned down by Louis knees on either side. He blinks blearily. Interrupted naps always leave him disoriented. "Were you outside like this?" He asks once he's got his wits more or less back. He drags his eyes down Louis' body, from the jagged range of his collarbone down the smooth, bare skin of his torso. His thighs are flexed delightfully, holding him balanced spread out over Harry's chest. His cock lays soft and heavy, a warm weight between his pecs. "Naked on the balcony where anyone could see?"

"Too high up, nobody could ever tell it's me." Louis replies, eyes half lidded to peer down from a curtain of lashes. He's holding a lit cigarette loosely, half smoked already, and he brings it to his mouth. Harry watches his ribcage expand, and then sink back in as he breathes a stream of smoke out above their heads. Harry's own lungs ache with jealousy at the waste.

"Could still see you." Harry insists, licking his lips and parting them, hoping Louis recognizes the invitation. "Anyone could have looked up and seen that you were there, all exposed for the world."

"Suppose so." Louis hums, leaning forward, free hand pressing into the pillow beside Harry's head. His dick drags up between them, grinding against Harry's collar, tip brushing his neck when he bends, takes a toke and deposits it into Harry's mouth. Harry can't help but groan his gratitude, drinking in the offering and holding it in his body for as long as he can bear before letting go. "Don't like that thought?" Louis asks, sitting back up, "that they saw this? Anonymous nude twelve stories up?"

"No." Harry breathes fervently, trying to chase Louis up, but he can't raise himself more than a couple inches off the bed. "Hate it. Nobody's allowed to see this but me."

"Possessive." Louis comments idly, twirling the fag between his knuckles. He inhales again and hunches to blow in Harry's face. It makes his eyes prickle and tears well up. Louis does it again, closer, and it's enough to send one spilling over to roll down his temple and seep into his hair.

"Love." Harry whines, blinking through the moisture. His eyelashes have clumped up and blurred his vision, blurred Louis. "Please."

"Alright alright." Louis sighs, and this time when he stoops it's for a proper snog. His mouth opens against Harry's and smoke slips between them. They suck noisily at each other, greeting and apologizing and relearning. It's hard to keep track of time, and they don't stop until Louis hisses and jerks away, cursing and flicking his hand. "Fucking burned me."

"Baby," Harry slurs sympathetically. "Let me." Louis pouts prettily and gives Harry his fingers to kiss. Harry keeps the first one chaste, a dry smooch to where the cigarette had burned low and bit the sensitive skin. Then he opens his mouth and curls his tongue over the digits, guiding them last his teeth and sealing his lips. Suckles.

"Damnit." Louis groans, hips rolling forward with each suck. His cock is filling up steadily, and he can't seem to help seeking friction. "Minx. Don't know why I missed you." He pulls his fingers out, the pop louder than expected in the dim room. He tips to the side and extracts a pack of cigs from one of the pairs of trousers on the floor. Pulls a lighter out from under the pillow. Once he's got the fresh stick between his teeth he resumes the slow grind against Harry's chest. It's too dry, their skin chaffing awkwardly, but Harry can't help how quickly his arousal sets in.

"Love you." He rasps, "Hated being without you. Never leave me again."

"You left too." Louis reminds him, tapping the cigarette over Harry's face, ashes falling like snow to grace his cheeks. "Left me for America. Put an ocean between us and everything. One might even say you left more."

"I was at _our_ house." Harry protests, squirming a bit to see if Louis will let his arms free. He wants to touch. The thighs caging him in squeeze tighter in punishment, no luck. "You were frolicking in Barcelona, partying in exotic clubs while I lay cold and alone in _our_ bed."

"Shut up." Louis says, reaching down to thumb below Harry's eye. He's smearing the soot around, leaving dusty grey smudges like war paint. "Shut up shut up." Before Harry can tell him to _make him_ , Louis pinches his nipple. Hard.

"Fuck." He gasps, bucking once.

"What happened to you Harry?" Louis asks, fingers like a vice, rhythmically squeezing and plucking the tender bud, coaxing it up into a peak. "Remember the first time I made you do this? The first time I held you down and forced smoke down your throat? You coughed so hard, for so long. Though you were gonna chuck. You cried, remember?" Harry does remember. Even now he flushes with humiliation at the memory, years old though it is. "You hated it." Louis continues, still humping in slow, languid pumps. His swollen balls drag over the heaving pulse of Harry's heart. "You didn't speak to me for hours. Had to chase you down and suck your cock before you forgave me. And now look at you." To illustrate he offers the cigarette to him, not that he has a choice but to take the tip and suck it in. Louis follows the path with his fingers, stroking down Harry's neck to cup his chest as it swells, back up to twirl amidst the smoke as it leaves him. "Now you can't get enough. I destroyed you didn't I? Corrupted the sweet, pure little thing you were."

"Louis." Harry pleads, not entirely sure what he's asking for. But he feels like if he doesn't get more, if something doesn't give he's going to explode. or implode, just crumble and fall into himself, unable to support the weight of his own desperation. "Please."

Louis hums absently, patting his sooty cheek in a soothing motion. "Be still." He coos, "be good for me. I know what you need." And then he lowers the lit cigarette until it's so close to Harry's skin he can feel the heat. He moves it to hover over the nipple he'd been playing with, already puffy and over-sensitive. Harry gasps, can't tear his gaze away from where the fire threatens to make contact.

"/Lou/."

"Sshh." Louis breathes, and tips the cigarette so that it makes contact with the lower curve of Harry's pectoral. It hurts instantly, searing like nothing else. He only keeps it there for an instant but it's enough to send a fresh rush of tears spilling down Harry's face. "It's okay, I've got you."

Harry is so so hard. When Louis bends to lap over the wound, tongue wet and rough and hurting just right, his neglected cock twitches so violently it audibly slaps against his stomach. "Like that baby?" Louis purrs, perching his stubbly chin beside the scorch. The cigarette is back, menacingly poised. Harry can't so anything but nod spastically, sobbing through clenched teeth. The next burn lands directly on the already inflamed areola, and Harry screams. It's barely anything, just a brush, but it was enough. His dick burbles and glob of pre-cum onto his stomach. Louis spares a glance over his shoulder and sees it. "So beautiful." He praises, gifting a smokey kiss to the slack sag of Harry's mouth. "Can you take one more love? One more and then you can come."

Harry shudders and clenches his eyes shut, unable to watch. But not being able to see it coming makes the anticipation even more unbearable. So instead he focuses on the bob of Louis' erection, sliding up and down his torso. He never quite gets as wet as Harry does so the motions are still awkwardly dry. As if reading his mind Louis reaches back to gather Harry's cum, borrowing it to make his own dick wetter.

When it finally happens it's at once the best and worst feeling in the world. Louis' body is contorted above him to stretch down the bed, his tongue teasing the head of Harry's dick as he reaches to tap the cigarette to the delicate skin of his inner thigh, where it's dusky and creased, curving to hold his balls. He comes instantly. Louis digs his fingers and and hold his hips down as his cock spasms and shoots off. It's so all consuming he whites out for a beat, coming back to Louis tossing the remains of the smoke in the direction the the bed-stand. Then he throws himself down, chest sticky with Harry's cum, and connects their mouths passionately.

"So fucking sexy." He gasps, wanking hard and fast and spilling over his own fist. They snog for long minutes, chasing the taste of the cigarette and cum until it's a distant bitter trace. Then Louis staggers off to fetch a wipe and the slim tube of antibacterial cream from his bag. Tenderly he cleans Harry off, paying special attention to the three bright welts. "Open baby." He coaxes, settling on his haunches between Harry's legs. Drowsily Harry lets his knees fall to to sides, and Louis lifts his soft cock to get at the one under his balls. Harry closes his eyes contentedly as Louis massages the cream in, picturing how pretty the newest addition must look against the collection of older scars.

Louis crawls back up the bed when he's done, dragging the duvet off the floor to cover them up. "Hey." Harry greets, puckering up. Louis cuddles into him obligingly.

"Missed you."

"Missed you more."

Louis rolls his eyes skyward and flicks him. "We are not doing this today Styles." It's cold for a second as he pulls away, groping around under the covers to find the cigarettes. He's had two in the half hour that Harry's been here but he always likes a smoke after sex. The lighter illuminates the sharp angles of his face, dances over the unkempt stubble and slight grease on his nose. Harry sighs deeply and curls tighter, head on Louis' shoulder.

His mum had always warned him about smoking, about the irreversible consequences. Harry had always shrugged her warnings off, unable to see any reason why he'd want to start in the first place. It's ugly and poisonous and wretched. And someday it's going to be a battle to quit but they'll do it, when their youth has run out and their mortality dawns on them. But for now Louis leans in and offers his breath, and Harry can't find it in himself to say no just yet.


End file.
